I wrote this a year ago...

Sepia-toned sunglasses.

Misty drizzle.

Heavy inhalations, sultry humid air.

How much of what we are is what we will be.

How much of who we were is who we are now.

How hard it is to become who you want to be.

Predominantly poised, secretly psychotic.

Is every reality a dream. Is every dream a reality?

Preconceived mold. Inevitably type-cast. The many roles of one.

Weak.

So irrit-tat-ting.

This individual always sucked into pigeon holes.

Gravitating like gaping singularities. Past the event horizon.

Can you build me a spaceship flying faster than light.

How much is that becky in the window?

Broken up sidewalks. Birds in flight. Rumble of the street car.

Where do we go, nobody knows.

A community of two is better?

How about a love story of one...